(April 7th, 1868.)
There is mourning to-day in the halls of the great,
And homes of the people of lowly estate.
A deed has been done which o’ershadows the heart
With a darkness and horror that will not depart.—
The Poet and Statesman lies cold in his gore,
His eloquent accents will thrill us no more:
No more, with our hearts to all charities strung,
Shall we listen to catch the sweet sounds of his tongue.
That tongue, whose enchantment could hold us in thrall
Will never more gladden the close, crowded hall;
But the light of his genius will shine o’er the land,
And his fame, like Mount Royal, forever shall stand,
For his thoughts were the lights of our northern sky,
And the soul’s spoken melody never can die.
O God! could no virtue, no pity restrain
The wretch who has sown such a harvest of pain?
What though on the scaffold he die for the deed
That causes fond hearts, like his victim, to bleed?
A million such lives no atonement can make
For the star that is quenched, for the sorrows that shake
Our trust in the highest and holiest plan,
Our faith in the ultimate goodness of man.